


All that Glistens

by stilastarla



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Humour, Modern Girl in Middle Earth, Slow Burn, iphones as magical artefacts, magic immunity, pop culture references, reader does not know everything
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 11:25:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15885075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stilastarla/pseuds/stilastarla
Summary: A series of one-shots in which Thorin discovers all that glistens is not gold, as shown to him by a brave hobbit and a strange lass on whom magic does not work and who hails from a strange world called Modern Earth.





	All that Glistens

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing but the OC and I’m certainly making no money from this.

When you think about it, and you’ve certainly had plenty of time to do so, you are always convinced it began around the fireplace, the very same night of the very same day when some giant-ass eagles dropped you, Gandalf, Bilbo and some very worn-out dwarves atop a cliff when they could have done you all the courtesy of flying you straight to Erebor which was just sitting there over the horizon. It certainly wasn’t the same as sitting in first-class and you had spent the long night hours freezing and clamping your teeth together so they wouldn’t chatter and nip your tongue by accident. Actually, that would hardly have been the case because said tongue had been stuck to the roof of your mouth in terror and wonder because of the great height and even greater beauty of Middle-earth when the land was bathed in the dark of night and the shining lights of the great moon and stars. Still, precautions were always necessary. 

But you digress. It all began really, when you had agreed to take the first watch. The Company had just crossed three rivers and countless miles because honestly, you had lost count after running for your life after the dwarves because all of you were running from the slavering orcs riding equally slavering wargs baying for your blood and livers. You had no idea what was going on, except that Thorin and the Company looked the lesser of two evils and Gandalf had given you no choice when he had hauled you to your feet and shouted at you to run. You still didn’t understand why Fate hadn’t seen fit to drop you onto the sled with the wizard who owned those magical rabbits, the very same wizard who was getting away. Maybe because Fate was a gigantic bitch or bastard or maybe both because one minute, you had been in an air-conditioned museum messing around with the showcase where guests could get a hands-on experience touching ancient pottery shards and trying old methods of making said pottery. You’d picked up a very white piece, almost glowing and had traced a curious pattern on the surface. There had been a blinding white light, you’d screamed and opened your eyes to find that the world had gone to hell in a handbasket because the sun was shining brightly above, there was golden-hued grass around and a pack of what looked like mutated hyenas and goblin men bearing down on you. Somewhere out there, the sound of your bloodcurdling scream was probably still echoing off some distant mountaintops. 

But back to that first watch. You weren’t going to be able to sleep anyway. Up until then, you had borne everything with relatively good grace and fortitude. That meant not screaming hysterically, even when you realised no one there spoke English. You also sat very still and let Gandalf and what you now knew to be the White Council poke and prod you and mutter all manner of mystical and comprehension-defying spells that did little more than make you flush red and curl your hair, much like how a bad perm would. It felt like jolts of electricity, their magic. Otherwise, it had no effect on you. Oh, and it hadn’t assuaged their suspicions when you couldn’t help but stare at the eye-wateringly beautiful rings that Galadriel, Elrond and Gandalf were wearing, rings that no one else was supposed to be able to see. You didn’t cry, not publicly at least, but into your bedroll and only because you were sleeping next to Gloin and Oin who provided enough thunderous snores to drown out your own sobs. You had even coped with the lack of coffee and toilet paper. You had picked the kindest member of the Company, Bilbo, and stuck to him like a second skin. It was Bilbo who had taught you Common Speech, Bilbo whom you practiced swordplay with, after Dwalin or the brothers had worn you both out to the bone in a bid to make sure you lasted more than five minutes in battle. 

It was Bilbo whom you checked on again, just to make sure he was still there, sandwiched between Fili and Kili. Safe. You sighed, fed a bit more kindling to the fire and continued to stare out into the night and the surrounding wood, listening for something out of place. A foul stench downwind perhaps, or the irregular soft crunch of grass that signalled something was stalking its way towards the camp. Long thin howls on the wind that didn’t come from wolves. You shivered, wrapped your arms around yourself and hissed when the wound over your shoulder burned. Medicines and bandages and even stitching had been doled out to all who had needed it by Balin and Bofur, and some ointment had been given to you, along with a clean bandage that was not so clean now, despite your best efforts. 

Absently tugging on your short ponytail, a testament to the time you had spent with the Company and the lack of a pair of scissors, you tried very hard not to see wargs in every moving shadow. When a strong wind came blowing through to bend the trees, you dug your feet into the solid earth and tried to ignore the feeling of dangling over an abyss. At times, you were quite certain you could smell the smoke and stench of Goblin Town, feel rough hands squeezing and clutching although the dwarves had tried to keep you safe. Thank the gods of Middle-earth that none of the goblins had realised you were a woman, due to the large hat, baggy clothes and bits and pieces of armour the dwarves had stuck on you. For once in your life, you were glad of your 5’2 stature; you had blended in nicely with Thorin and Dwalin. 

You had also almost died. Multiple times. In fact, you had stared Death in the face so many times that by now, you were sure you and he were more than mere acquaintances. By the end of the quest, that might move up to bosom buddies, if you were still alive, that was. Inside your chest, you could feel your heart racing, beating so hard against your chest as though it would ram its way out. Sourness filled your mouth and you realised your breaths were getting very shallow and rather loud. Blindly, you struggled with your cuirass, flingers fumbling, thoughts a complete jumble save for one thing you had latched onto with all the focus you could muster. Then it was there, safe in your hand, extracted from beneath the bindings around your torso that you had tucked it into: your iPhone. With a furtive look around at the sleeping dwarves and the silent forest, you switched it on, watched as the familiar logo flashed out of the dark screen and suddenly, seconds became long minutes before you unlocked it and touching a trembling figure to the glass surface, opened the photo app. You still had ninety percent battery life remaining; you had never dared take out the phone or use it. Until tonight, you had never felt such a compulsive need to see the beloved faces of the family you had left behind, who had probably called the police and every other agency that they could think of to find you. 

Suddenly, it became hard to see them for the tears in your eyes. Wiping your eyes with the back of your hand, you continued scrolling through the photos. Your last birthday with them; the flowers you received; Christmas together; a dumb group shot with you and your siblings all sticking your tongues out at the screen. 

A sharp indrawn breath informed you that you were no longer alone. You jumped and would have slid off the fallen tree trunk that doubled as a seat if Thorin hadn’t grabbed you by the shoulder. Unfortunately, it was the injured one he had gotten his hand on and you yelped. 

Thorin muttered an oath in Khuzdul, a tongue that you could not hope to comprehend despite your rather decent success in Common Speech. “Let me see that,” he said, settling down beside you and for a moment, you had no idea which he was referring to: your wound or the phone. 

Thick fingers that could wield Orcrist like a feather (Gandalf had let you lift Glamdring in return for allowing him to perform another spell experiment on you and Elven steel, while light, wasn’t exactly weightless) unbuttoned your tunic shirt with startling dexterity. The next thing you knew, the King of the exiled dwarves of Erebor was lifting the bandage. The faint smell of your blood filled the air. “It’s bleeding anew,” he said in a low tone that sounded apologetic enough, even if the words didn’t come out of his mouth. Mutely, you watched as he retrieved a clean cloth, some ointment and began tending your wounds. You wanted to tell him not to, but you felt stretched tight, like an old wineskin with new wine, like leather hammered too thin. Putting light pressure on your wound, you saw Thorin’s gaze drop down to your phone, where your parents smiled back at the two of you. 

“That’s my mother and father,” you whispered, not because you were trying to be considerate, but simply because you had no energy left. “And these are my sisters and brother.” You swiped right and they appeared, your brother and sisters, whom you loved so much that you would have given anything just to make sure they didn’t end up here too. “I’m the youngest,” you felt compelled to add, useless though that bit of information was. 

“I’m the eldest,” Thorin said so casually that for a moment, you wondered if you had imagined it. But stranger things had happened. Just that morning, Thorin had hugged Bilbo and confessed how wrong he had been, and just about in time too because you had been about to push the King of the dwarves off the cliff for the awful things coming out of his mouth. He had even given you a gruff clap on the back; you had thrown yourself over him and fought with the orcs who had been about to slash his neck when Gandalf appeared and saved the day. “Did you give them as hard a time as my brother and sister did me?”

You winced when Thorin lifted the bandage again only to press down harder. You were still bleeding, apparently. “No, I was always as good...” The urge to giggle rose like a wild thing and you smothered it with some effort. “As good as gold,” you continued. “That’s what everyone always said.” Sure, you got up to shenanigans like every other kid but somehow, you sidestepped every major pitfall in your teenage years and made it into adulthood in one relatively unharmed piece. 

“I do not doubt that.” Finally satisfied, Thorin put the bloodied cloth aside and daubed the medicine into your cut. You were sure your face was a little whiter, even with the soft glow of the fire and you were blinking excessively, a sure sign you were in pain. But at least you didn’t yelp anymore. “It occurs to me that I know little of you, despite the many weeks you have spent with us.”

You smiled then. “I’m just glad you didn’t kick me out or leave me in Rivendell.” You knew very little about all of this, all of these people who were very much alive and well and not confined to the pages of the books you had as a child. You’d seen some of the movies, not all. But you remembered Saruman had been a villain and it was with no small relief that you had left him behind; the deep dark looks he had sent your way had been frightening enough to register with Gandalf. 

“Would you not have liked the comfort of the Elvish beds or food? I recall you liked their music.”

Thorin looked so sour just saying those words that your smile turned into a small laugh. “The elves are a very curious lot. Did you not see the state of my hair when Lindir sent me back from that meeting?” The dwarves had quizzed you, Bilbo too the moment the elf had left. Where was Gandalf? Why in the name of Mahal was your hair standing on end? And why were you sweating like a pig? Ori had added that in, Gloin had declared loudly that pigs did not sweat, Nori had defended his brother just because, and then Oin got into it as well. Had it not been for Thorin, who silenced the lot, you might never have been able to relay Gandalf’s message, which was basically to get the hell out of Rivendell as quickly and quietly as possible. 

Fastening the bandage on your skin again, Thorin waited until you switched off the phone and tucked it safely away before taking over once more by buttoning up your shirt and refastening your cuirass. He was just bossy like that, you figured, simply used to being in command. And really, why wouldn’t he be, you asked yourself. He was the tallest dwarf in the company, he had as much presence as Gandalf and that was saying something, and the bluest eyes this side of Middle-earth, or modern Earth actually, that you had ever seen. “You feared for your well-being?” he frowned. “Why did you not tell...” He stopped when he saw the look on your face. 

“Wizards are also a very curious lot. In any case, I feared losing my hair should I spend more time in Rivendell, and decided I had better go with you all. Besides, Bilbo was leaving too.” And he was my friend, even then he already was. That part was silent, though you were sure Thorin heard it loud and clear. “That’s not the only reason though. Now at least.”

Clear blue eyes looked thoughtfully into yours and you felt compelled to turn away to the fire. Somehow, it wasn’t so bright. “Like you, I want to go home. I too have a treasure to seek. So I know how it feels, a little,” you qualified, not wanting to equate years of suffering and hardship on his part with your own experience. “Besides, you have been kind, all of you. Bifur whittled a toy horse for me; Bombur takes requests for dinner if he has the ingredients; Balin and Nori tell me stories; Gloin, Oin and Dwalin have stopped frowning so much at me. Bofur is as sweet as Bilbo and Fili and Kili make me laugh. Dori...” You stopped because suddenly you could feel the sting of fresh tears. “I’m just glad we all made it. It’s a miracle. I would like to follow this journey through to the end.” 

“Even with the dragon waiting in the mountain?”

It was a terrifying though, not terrifying enough you were certain because you had never seen Smaug while the dwarves had, at least most of them. “Maybe I might be of use there. Magic has very little effect on me and that’s apparent to those versed in its arts. Perhaps I could distract Smaug. Or something.” Or be eaten alive. Or be torn limb from limb. Such thoughts were certainly not helping so you did the one thing you knew would drive them away. You looked up and met Thorin’s gaze. 

He said nothing, but there was a warmth there that you had seen before, something you would never have believed possible in the cold exiled King until that morning. “You should sleep. It’s been two nights since you rested.”

You blinked. How could he have known? You had been arguing with Bilbo, then leaving together with him when he could not be dissuaded to stay. Unless he had been awake...? The corner of Thorin’s mouth turned up, a slight knowing smile that caused you to turn very warm and you were certain you were flushing red. ‘Blast him,’ you thought irritably. And to think he managed that without using magic at all. “I can’t sleep,” you muttered. “When I close my eyes...” You saw fire and goblins and orcs and darkness without end... “my mind won’t settle.” 

He didn’t ask you to sleep again. But when Dwalin rose for the next shift, Thorin waved him away. Through the long hours of the night, for some unfathomable reason that you were truly glad for, Thorin sat with you and that was when it all began, your friendship with the future King under the Mountain.


End file.
